Sir Thomas More

Nay, tempt me not to love again: There was a time when love was sweet; Dear Nea! had I known thee then, Our souls had not been slow to meet! But oh! this weary heart hath run So many a time the rounds of pain, Not even for thee, thou lovely one! Would I endure such pangs again.

Why dost thou gaze upon the sky? O that I were yon spangled sphere! Then every star should be an eye, To wander o'er thy beauties here.

This hath not offended the king.

They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed, that even men for whom it was made, and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value than it is.

A little wanton money, which burned out the bottom of his purse.